


How Much to Give, How Much to Take

by PaddyWack



Series: King of Men [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 13:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10163735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaddyWack/pseuds/PaddyWack
Summary: “You’re the only one willing to fight for me. The only one willing to kill for me. I’m in need of a loyal dog like you.”





	

_-i-_

 

The days were getting shorter and the cold nights longer as the season edges into winter. Most everyone seeks out the sun as much as they possibly can in preparation for its disappearance in the coming months. Altair, along with his brothers, is no exception.

 

The hunting party breaks out around midmorning, the wind a brisk breeze ruffling their riding cloaks and staining their exposed faces a bright pink. The skies are clear blue with hardly any clouds to block the warmth of the sun as they trudge familiar paths through the King’s forest.

 

If Altair were being honest, he would admit that he had sorely missed these woods while away. They were rich with game and so expansive you could easily become lost within their winding trails. They had proven to be a favorite adventure in his boyhood, and an exciting pastime as he had gotten older.

 

In truth, his love for the forest stems mostly from the warm memories buried deep within its roots – of slipping away with the King when Malik was just in line for the succession, hiding from the guard, laughing and romping like boys even though they were young men at the time. He remembers vividly the taste of mint on his tongue when their mouths would crash together, the hard press of another man’s chest against his own, and the unforgiving bark driving into his shoulders as they battled for dominance beneath a canopy of leaves.

 

Altair grimaces at the familiar burn the memories bring, pulsing through his arms and legs like fire. His knees tighten against the saddle in response, and he has to shake himself out of the fog when the powerful roan beneath him gives an impatient jump and nearly tosses him from the saddle.

 

On his left, Desmond snorts and pretends he hadn’t noticed, but on Altair’s right, Ezio barks out an obnoxious laugh and pulls up closer on his own large charger.

 

“Is he too much for you?” Ezio asks, eyes gleaming. “You would think, being Master of Horse now, that you would be able to handle any horse in the royal stables.”

 

Altair glares at him from the corner of his eye and does not respond.

 

Undeterred, Ezio only grins and presses his luck. “I remember a time when you could tame any stallion you set your eye on. Even the most ornery and unmastered ones succumbed to your touch eventually.”

 

More alert by his brother’s crass double-meaning, Altair gives Ezio a look full of warning and a promise of pain should he tread any further. Many at court have speculated about his preferences in bed companions for years, but none have ever dared to say it outright. He wishes to keep it so, since outing himself would throw suspicion onto the King, considering it was no secret how close they had once been.

 

While such a lifestyle is not necessarily looked down upon, it is absolutely forbidden for a monarch to choose such preferences for themselves. They are held to a higher standard. They absolutely must produce heirs to the throne. Choosing to lie with someone of the same sex, or to consider marriage to that person, would be seen as an act of rebellion against the crown.

 

Ezio only nods his head in deferment, smirking merrily. “I only jest,” he concedes, and in undertone adds, “But I am curious about how you plan to tame our most powerful and handsome stallion once more, Altair.” Ezio looks from his brother’s stormy expression to the head of their hunting party, where Malik is seated on a horse of black velvet and dressed in greys and blacks to match. “Especially when said beast is surrounded by a pack of slavering wild dogs.”

 

Altair follows Ezio’s gaze to Lord Warren and his supporters riding next to the King, penning Malik in at the front of the procession. To the common folk it simply seems as if the King and his courtiers are on a pleasant ride, but to those who know better, Malik resembles an animal very much aware that it is surrounded by enemies, and staring down the bolt of a crossbow.

 

“Watch your pretty words,” Altair warns. “You’re not as skilled a poet as you think. And don’t worry about – him. That is solely my responsibility.” He spurs his horse hard and lets the beast thunder forward in the same moment that the hounds begin to bay explosively, giving chase to a stag sprinting through the trees. Purposefully, he drives through the middle of Warren and Malik, jostling them both unawares and causing Warren’s gentle bay mare to rear in fright.

 

He glances back over his shoulder with a dark smirk, delighting in the annoyed scowl Warren is shooting at his back, but reveling in the look of mocking amusement that lights up Malik’s face like the sun as the King easily controls his own horse, and turns to follow the hounds.

 

_-ii-_

It is early evening when their party finally makes it back to the palace with their prize. Altair takes command at the stables and orders one of the young stablehands to haul the felled stag to the kitchens. They will fix it, along with the other smaller game caught on the hunt, into a royal spread for dinner. The others begin to dismount and loiter about the yard, chatting animatedly, still caught up in the excitement of the hunt and wishing to soak up the last bits of warmth from the sun. Altair begins checking the horses over for any sign of strain or injuries, attention split between them and keeping a lock on where Malik stands not too far away.

 

“Fine hunt, wouldn’t you say?” Altair glances up from rubbing his own horse’s sweat dampened neck to find his Uncle Haytham, the Duke of York, eyeing him with a carefully calculated smile. “I believe Connor stole all of the glory with his skill at the bow, however. It’s been rather difficult lately getting the boy to focus on state matters.” The last bit is said little grudgingly.

 

“He’s very talented,” Altair remarks, returning his attention to his horse at a curious wicker.

 

“Indeed.” Haytham says, full of disapproval. “It seems he prefers these hunts much more since you’ve returned. Though I have to say, you’ve done a fine job with the post of horse master. Even His Grace has taken a liking to these outings, which, as you know, has caused quite the stir in London. He hasn’t exactly been one for public appearances lately.”

 

Altair pauses for only a moment in rubbing his horse’s cheek, but it’s long enough to notice the quick snap of triumph in Haytham’s eyes, as if Altair has admitted to some wrongdoing that his uncle has suspected him of all along and is satisfied to find himself correct in his assumptions. He feels his hackles rise at the unnamed threat.

 

“Perhaps it’s time he changed that. The people miss their beloved King,” he says coolly and nods, politely dismissing himself to lead his horse back to the stables.

 

He hears Haytham hum thoughtfully behind him, but he does not turn back to question the doubtful sound of it. From across the yard, Desmond and Ezio move to fall in behind him with their own mounts, leaving the stablehands with instructions to take care of the others still in the yard.

 

“What did Haytham say to make you look like you wish to drive someone through with a sword?” Ezio questions when they are far enough out of earshot to not sound suspicious. “You should learn to school your expressions better here, Altair. Anyone can read you like an open book.”

 

“It’s nothing,” he growls.

 

“Then you’d better act like it’s nothing. Otherwise, people will say you and our uncle are on the outs. He’s on the council, having a disagreement with him will spoil your name to the others and make them watch you even more closely than they already do.”

 

Annoyed, Altair bites out curtly, “I don’t need court lessons from you, Ezio. There is no disagreement. He commented that the King is spending more time outdoors and I agreed that perhaps it is a good change.”

 

Ezio’s eyebrows rise slightly with mild interest. “Did he? I would take heed by that comment,” he warns. “Most on the council prefer Malik to remain indoors, including Haytham. Maybe it was a warning to you.”

 

Desmond leads his horse into a stall next to Altair’s and leans his upper body out over the half door. “A warning for what? What does he need to be warned for?”

 

“Warned off the King,” Ezio says quietly, chuckling. “Uncle seems to sense the changes coming to this newly merry court, and is unhappy with what that may mean for him. Perhaps your star is on the rise, Altair. Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

 

Altair rolls his eyes. “Are you the royal astronomer now?” he taunts, mocking.

 

Ezio only grins and heads toward his own stall further down the line, calling over his shoulder, “Stranger things have happened before.”

 

Desmond frowns at his brother’s back before turning his confused look on Altair over the door. “Court has made him very vague and dreamy sounding, don’t you think?”

 

“I’ve always thought he was an idiot.”

 

Desmond snorts but doesn’t comment, choosing instead to set about rubbing down his horse with handfuls of hay and murmuring softly to the animal as he works. Altair does the same in his own stall, both preferring to care for their respective horses themselves rather than allowing the stable boys the task.

 

They work in silence as the twelve other horses are led in and cared for. The voices outside fade off into quiet as everyone begins to feel the evening chill and wish to warm themselves. Altair finishes with his beautiful roan and makes his way down the line checking the others over as they are put away for the night. He keeps his eyes forward even though his first reaction is to glance around for Malik. As frustrating as Ezio is, and as much as it pains Altair to admit it, he may have been right to preach caution.

 

But caution is not something Altair has time for. Not when Malik has asked for his help, and not when Altair has sworn to do anything to return the power to their rightful King. As far as he is concerned, the council is filled with a bunch of overly ambitious old men who need to be taught their place. And Altair has come home to do just that.

 

He is just finishing up helping put away the last of the tack when someone clears their throat behind him. When he turns around, it takes an impressive amount of willpower to keep himself from reacting to Malik’s presence in the stables. Lord Secretary Warren stands at his elbow, smiling pleasantly.

 

Altair dips his upper body in greeting. “Your Grace.” Warmth pools low in his belly, and he grits his teeth against the less than respectable thoughts flitting through his head at Malik’s closeness. He nods to Warren and murmurs a greeting as well.

 

Malik, as if sensing his torment, merely gives the ghost of a smirk and steps forward to clasp Altair’s hand in his own in a firm shake. “I wanted to thank you for planning such an enjoyable day for us all. I think I speak for everyone when I say it’s been a pleasant change of pace. Perhaps we can do this again soon.”

 

“At your leisure, Your Grace,” Altair says. “I am happy to serve.”

 

Malik’s eyes are bright and gleaming as he nods farewell and turns to go, the Lord Secretary immediately taking his ear as they leave the stables and head toward the palace. Altair waits until they are out of sight before quickly stepping into the nearest empty stall and carefully opening his hand. He had not wavered at the piece of paper Malik pressed into his palm. Now, however, he feels a thrill similar to the rush before battle as he quietly unfolds the note, edged like a knife and eager to move.

 

_3 o’clock. Be discreet._

He feels his chest constrict with impatient relief at having finally been summoned. The last time Altair had been alone with the King was weeks ago, when he had first returned from Davengard and had expected the King’s wrath to fall around his ears. It has been a test of Altair’s patience forcing himself to wait for Malik to reach out first.

 

There are spies around every corner, starving to report a rumour, hoping to gather any evidence to start a scandal. He constantly has to practice discretion, because anything he does can easily be twisted into something else and possibly damage Malik’s reputation, bringing him even lower than he is already. Warren is always looking for an excuse to suck up more of the King’s power. It’s like a high stakes game, and Altair is simply trying to keep his hand hidden.

 

He crumples the note and puts it in his pocket to burn later. Just then, Ezio passes by the stall whistling to himself and gives Altair’s pocket a knowing look. He winks without saying a word, amused, and strolls toward the front of the stables.

 

“Shall we go wash and have a game of cards before dinner?” He asks cheekily, dropping a casual arm around Desmond’s neck and pulling him along behind. “I’m suddenly in the mood for gambling.”

 

_-iii-_

“You’re very bold to try and unseat me from my horse today.”

 

Altair shrugs and leans further back into the stuffed chair before the fire. “It wasn’t you I was aiming to throw.”

 

Malik scoffs lightly from his own chair, admittedly larger and more comfortable than Altair’s. They are in Malik’s own bedchamber. His attendants were dismissed to the outer presence chamber for the night before Altair had even arrived, silently stepping through the secret panel door by the fireplace. It had been a true struggle to keep himself in check all evening waiting for the prearranged time, but finally 3 o’clock had come and Altair all but flew, silent as death, through secret passages to the King’s moonlit rooms.

 

He watches Malik from the corner of his eye, knowing his own face betrays the hunger he feels like a physical ache in his soul, and also knowing that Malik is fully aware of the sentiment, and uses it like a weapon against him.

 

“He has gotten even more insufferable lately,” Malik mutters, referring to his Lord Secretary. “I feel his eyes watching constantly now.”

 

“Haytham has already tried to warn me away. I believe I am making them all nervous.” He smirks and it earns him a quiet chuckle, which is just as good as a pound of gold to Altair.

 

“I knew they would be suspicious. If it is only a warning, then we need not fear any interference just yet. What did he say?”

 

Altair recounts the conversation in detail and waits as Malik silently mulls it over, the only sound in the room coming from the popping of the logs. After a moment, Malik makes a noncommittal hum and tips his head back, staring at the ceiling.

 

“It could be a warning,” he agrees. “Then again, it could be nothing. Better to assume the worst and watch what you say around the council.”

 

“I’ll be careful.”

 

“You really should,” Malik cuts in quickly, giving him a sharp look. “They can have you taken to the Tower under trumped up charges in a moment. They’ve undermined me for years, I don’t know if I could keep them from marching you to the scaffold if they played their cards right.”

 

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you’re worried about me.”

 

Malik narrows his eyes, but rather than come back with some scathing remark as Altair expects him to, he simply says, “That’s because I am.”

 

Altair stares at the side of his face, uncomprehending. The admission catches him completely off guard and thoughts of the council, of wrestling with Warren and his little rats, of England, grind to an abrupt and sudden halt. Malik is cold and sarcastic, he has never been one to admit what is truly on his mind or in his heart. Altair has always known him to prefer hiding behind cruel wit and cynicism rather than letting someone even try to guess at what he is feeling.

 

At one time, Altair could believe he had been close enough to try. Before all of the mistakes and all of the failures, it had seemed, if he squinted, that the walls Malik kept around himself had weakened. Briefly. During that final summer before the coronation, it felt as if Altair could easily push through and claim a part of Malik he was tentatively offering. That secret piece protected so fiercely – it could have been Altair’s, and he thought he had time to claim it slowly, carefully, to shield it from the world and keep it safe.

 

But then time ran out.

 

Summer was over and Malik was suddenly King, the plots sprang upon them like starving beasts. Kadar was found gasping on the floor, fingers were pointed at Altair, and his shame had chased him clear to the border before he could even take a breath. It was over.

 

Malik turns and watches him like a hawk. His mouth is a thin, tense line, and Altair fights back the urge to lean forward and force it to yield beneath his own. He remains silent, unsure and unwilling to break whatever thought Malik is having.

 

Finally, Altair is released from the penetrating stare as Malik looks away from him. “Don’t let it go to your head,” he says quietly. “You’re the only one willing to fight for me. The only one willing to kill for me. I’m in need of a loyal dog like you.”

 

Altair ignores the insult. He doesn’t care. Malik needs him, and that’s all there is to it. The admission of concern shakes him to his core and lights a fire in his chest. He clenches his hands into tight fists, and loosens them again, as if he’s preparing to snap someone’s neck right then and there, and perhaps he is. If Malik orders it, then it shall be done.

 

“I’m yours.”

 

Malik smiles.

 

_-iv-_

By some miracle, he manages to survive Christmastide and bring in the new year without Malik’s advisors getting too suspicious and throwing him in the Tower. He slips into Malik’s rooms at least once a week – sometimes more if he believes no one is watching too closely. Mostly he sticks to going through the secret passageway through the walls, but if getting there is too risky he opts for whatever other ways he can manage without gaining unwanted attention.

 

Naturally, there are rumors circulating. A few of the court ladies love whispering together in a corner of how they believe he is the King’s lover, that they have rekindled their friendship from childhood with a burning new lust and spend each full moon entangled together. One swears she caught them in the act in the royal gardens, behind the rose bush. Yet another says she heard Altair profess his love for Malik and the King respond in kind. They titter and sway each time he walks by, and he has to fight a smirk at their gossiping and their heartfelt glances, their gazes full of sympathy for a man in love with a King.

 

Rather than draw Warren’s eye, the rumours seem to actually have deterred it, which is why Altair finds himself hardpressed to dispel them. In public, Malik and Altair remain cool and distant toward each other, negating any thought of an affair by acting as if they all but detest one another. On the surface, Altair remains compliant and agreeable as only a reluctant subject can manage, while Malik treats him as any other person at court with whom he must interact when completely necessary, albeit acidly.

 

The old advisors are fooled into believing what Malik wants them to believe, while behind their backs Altair is dispatched like a hidden weapon to take down low born targets in Warren’s circle. As they fall, Malik appoints a few of his supporters here and there around the palace and throughout England in their place. One by one, the Lord Secretary’s circle diminishes without his notice, and Malik builds his support in the shadows. Slowly, so slowly, they begin to tighten the noose around Warren’s neck.

 

Altair lives for this path he has been given. His days are long and sometimes bloody, but his nights are full of burning need and the urge to be at Malik’s side. The moments he steals in the bedchamber with Malik are hoarded like a greedy dragon guarding its pile of treasure. He can’t help himself but to watch those dark almond eyes looking back at him, the pleased tilt of a jaw darkened with stubble when he has accomplished whatever tasks were assigned, and drink it all in as if he were dying of thirst.

 

Malik is a cruel master. Altair would not deny the truth if asked. He could not. Despite knowing this, Altair happily comes crawling back whenever possible, and feels sickened with impatience when he cannot. He knows without a shred of doubt Malik uses his personal feelings, Altair’s memories and his yearnings, to control his unwavering loyalty and command his blade. But he has not the will nor the inclination to walk away.

 

Malik remains, as he always has been, the center to which Altair finds himself circling, and the purpose for which he exists.


End file.
